


Relief

by thethinkingfruit



Series: The Tales of Warden Bralinden Aeducan [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Post-Endgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 17:30:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7854457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thethinkingfruit/pseuds/thethinkingfruit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Then, it was quiet. Bralinden’s arms were weak, trembling under the strain. She was gasping, unsure if she was going to die only a moment later, until everything settled, the blast receded, and the shaking from the blade had finally fallen still. Bralinden’s arms grew stuff, and her legs dropped from underneath her. Collapsing, she drew herself down, still supported on the blade, slipping onto the arch demon’s corpse. She was too frightened to remove her hands from the hilt.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Or, the Aftermath of the Battle of Denerim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relief

                The pure power exploding from the Arch Demon was enough to make Bralinden lose her footing, knocking her down and trying to wrench her hands from the blade’s hilt. She held firm as there was a cry of despair bellowing from the creature below her. The beast roared and thrashed, the explosion knocking the tower’s top around them, but still, her fingers were clenched tight around the blade’s hilt. She couldn’t see past the blinding light, or hear past the tremendous rumbling, and she prayed that something would make it end, that she would live, that Morrigan’s plan would work. Blindly she thought how she wasn’t ready to let Alistair die, or her companions, or the people of Denerim—or how she wasn’t ready to go just yet.

                Then, it was quiet. Bralinden’s arms were weak, trembling under the strain. She was gasping, unsure if she was going to die only a moment later, until everything settled, the blast receded, and the shaking from the blade had finally fallen still. Bralinden’s arms grew stuff, and her legs dropped from underneath her. Collapsing, she drew herself down, still supported on the blade, slipping onto the arch demon’s corpse. She was too frightened to remove her hands from the hilt.

_Is it over?_

                “Bralinden!”

                It sounded like Alistair. His voice rumbled, but it was hoarse, like ice was cracking under a beast’s weight. She was too weak to respond. The adrenaline was no longer pumping through her veins, the anger, the drive to survive, it all vanished, and all that was left was fear. She didn’t want to let go of the sword, just in case it wasn’t over, just in case she hadn’t done her job properly, just in case the beast wanted to spring up, and cry, “Fooled you!” so she gripped the blade’s hilt with all her might, preparing for anything.

                Hands were grabbing her, hoisting her off the beast in her armor, but she refused to budge, and became dead weight. The words were foggy and echoing in her helm. “Bralinden, no! Maker, not you! Morrigain said—she _promised—_ Bralinden, please, wake up—!”

                _Yes, definitely Alistair,_ Bralinden thought. She made a gurgling noise, and tried to elbow him in the face, but she still could not move her arms, and they only twitched. His shouting was splitting her head and he was shaking her. She just gripped tighter on the sword’s hilt. She was certain her fingers would become one with the sword hilt, embodied in its leather and metal: ten neat little indents, she figured, would be found in it after they pried it from her cold, dead corpse.

                “Alistair, stop, she’s not dead!” another voice shouted—Leliana, Bralinden hoped, her pretty speech a nice twist to Alistair’s rough manner. “You could be hurting her!”

                “Then why isn’t she responding—?”

                “How can she? You’re throwing her around like a ragdoll!”

                “Both of you, out of the way,” a third voice snapped. The shaking settled, Alistair and Leliana falling silent. “Bralinden, dear...”

 _Wynne,_ Bralinden thought, and felt tears start to gather in her scrunched up eyes. _She made it too. Please, let everyone live. Let them live, let us live._

“If you can hear me, let go of the sword. Let go of the sword, dear, it’s _over._ You did it. ”

                _It’s over?_

                _It’s over._

_It’s over…_

                Three stages passed through Bralinden. Confusion, certainty, and then relief, crashing over her like she was drowning, like the sea was dragging her down deeper and deeper and she couldn’t grab free, then suddenly she could breath. The world came back into focus, she could feel her limbs working just for a moment, air pumping into her lungs. She tried to speak and it came out as a strangled sob. Finally, her fingers creaking, the hilt of the sword fell from her grasp. Her arms slid down the beast’s face and she tried to move, but could not. Bralinden was exhausted.

                “Shit,” she finally managed to mumble. There was a cry of relief from her companions, and Alistair wrenched off her helm, cutting her ear. Not that it mattered. She was already battered and bruised enough as it was—one more injury wasn’t going to make it any worse. She was being pulled into a hug, her cheek getting mashed up against his armor, slick with blood, wet and warm, enough to make Bralinden shiver if she had the energy.

                “Oh, I’m so happy I could kiss you!” Alistair cried, gripping her tighter. “But I won’t—that would make this all weird.”

                Bralinden weakly chuckled, guising a sob. The thought of kissing pulled her mind away from Leliana, from Wynne, even from Alistair. She could barely see. The world was spinning. She squeezed her eyes shut to make it stop, but she could see one person in her mind’s eye. The world went quiet, the trio fading out. She felt someone start to shake her again.

 _Zevran. I want Zevran. Where is he?_ she tried to ask. Bralinden wasn’t sure if she was heard, because no one responded. Last she had seen him, he was among those dealing with the brunt of the darkspawn down in the city. She told herself he was fine, and thankfully, Bralinden's conscious believed it. It was quiet for a while, until there was a shout, enough to jar her from her thoughts.

                “Bralinden, try not to move, we’re going to treat your wounds. You’re very injured,” Wynne said loudly into her ear. Braliden wondered if for a moment she had blacked out, because now she was not being held, but on a stretcher. She could hear chanting and mages, moaning and groaning, and saw the sky above her turning a soft, blue night instead of the curdling blood red it had been merely hours before.

                She tried to speak. “Ze…” was all she could make it out, as she heard shouting again. The world was slipping back into darkness.

                When she opened her eyes again, she was in a room. She could hear murmuring outside, but the moaning had stopped. The ceiling was made of stone. She was in a castle—or a fort—somewhere inside. It smelt of death. Someone was there, rummaging around, but she couldn’t see. She was so tired. Everything hurt. Where were her guards, her companions? But if it was an assassin, she was going to kick his ass before he had the chance to kill her. Despite her body protesting, she reached to grab something. A weapon, anything to defend herself. There was something next to her side, and she seized it, swollen fingers pained as she gripped the hilt. She felt the air move next to her, as someone started to lean closer. Bralinden gave a shout, hopefully to startle the would-be attacker, and plunged the object in hand into his chest.

                However, she missed, and slipped from the bed. Her would-be attacker caught her and stopped her from hitting the ground. Her feet only brushed against the cold stone floor, until the man eased her onto the ground. She could not feel her legs and her arm went limp. The wooden spoon that she had grabbed clattered to the floor as she sank towards the stone, and into the man’s arms.

                “Who?” she gasped, trying to make sense of things.

                “Bralinden, my love, you are safe…Bralinden, it is me.”

                Bralinden’s eyes finally started to work—the room stopped spinning, and Zevran appeared before her. His face was fuzzy at first, but then he became clearer, crisper. His smell—a musty leather—flooded her senses, and while her nose wrinkled at the unpleasant aroma, she sighed at the familiarity. His voice was music, his features warm and handsome, and Bralinden smiled wearily at him. She was content to lay in his arms until she saw the terror in his eyes, one that was unfamiliar. She wanted to make it vanish, make him feel safe, reassure him that all was well, until she realized that she was lying on the floor, clutching the spoon, awake for the first time in who knows how long.

                “We have to stop meeting like this,” she muttered, before she burst into a fit of coughing, pain shooting through her chest. Zevran tried to laugh, but it crumbled quickly, arms rallying around her, pulling her upwards, back to the bed. She hummed, content, but once she was settled with the blanket drawn up over her legs and to her chest, she felt his arms start to retreat. “Zevran—Zevran, where are you going…?” She sounded frightened and Bralinden didn’t like the feeling of the abject terror starting to well up within her.

                “I am going nowhere for long, my love. I need to get Wynne,” he replied. “You are very weak. The battle, it took much out of you.”

                A moment of fear struck Bralinden. She tried to sit up to get a good look at herself, until hands were gently pressing her back down to lie back. “Am I still in one piece?” she asked.

                “Yes, my dear—I did not mean it literally. You’ve just been…so quiet as of late.” His voice broke, before he cleared his throat. “Let me get Wynne. Stay awake, my love, just for a little while longer.”

                “Stay,” she croaked. She tried to reach out her hand. She wanted someone there. The darkness was trying to creep in again, she could feel it. “Please, Zevran…”

                A hand took hers and warmth blossomed through her. Lips kissed her fingers, then her knuckles, and finally her palm. “I will, love, I _will._ Just let me get our healer, first, to ensure that you recover.”

                His voice was warm and comforting, and Bralinden finally nodded, weak. “Be quick,” she ordered, though it sounded like a plea to her ears. She forced her eyes open again, and she saw his face close to hers. She reached out, and her hand brushed against his cheek. Her voice a whisper, she smiled brightly. “I love you.”

                He nodded simply, leaning into her touch. His eyes closed for a moment before he leaned forward. Lips found hers, and he kissed her sweetly, thumb trailing down her cheek. Zevran caressed her face for a moment longer, letting the kiss linger, before whispered, “I’ll be back, I promise,” and he hurried from the room, quite loudly. He might have knocked over something important in his haste as there was a clatter of something falling to the floor. In the distance she could hear a cry of, “Wynne, Wynne! She’s awake!” and cheers erupted from the halls.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this ages ago (sometime after the first Bralinden piece I wrote) and felt that it finally needed to be cleaned up because I really, really love the Warden/Zevran dynamic, and imagine this is how things went down after the battle. There's no way you came off scott-free after fighting through all the Darkspawn, and then taking down an arch-demon!


End file.
